Is It News: Gay Man Holds Baby Edition

BREAKING:

Is this news? I don't know, is there any sort of photographic proof?

So it's true! Verdict: News.

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Like Mother, Like Tiger

The following was originally published in the February 4 edition of the Dayton Daily News and has been credited with single-handedly saving the newspaper industry.

You’re all worthless and weak.

And there’s a reason for it. Your mom.

Ha, ha, ha, no friend, I assure you I haven’t filled this column with a series of Wilmer Valderrama approved “Yo Momma” jokes, each more cutting and “aw snap” inducing than the next. Though, as is the case every week, I thought about it.

Instead, we’re going to talk about the phenomenon that is being a “tiger mother.” If you haven’t heard of it, allow me to tiger mom upside yo head for a second: You are stupid. Why don’t you read more, you lazy slug?

Undoctored photo

Boom, tiger mom’d.

See? It’s the verbally abusive parenting sensation that’s sweeping the nation! Only in this case, China is the nation.

Now it’s been introduced to America by Yale law professor Amy Chua in her much-talked-about book “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother.” Being a tiger mother involves putting extremely strict, some would say draconian, methods that are commonplace in China into practice when raising a child in the Western world.

In the book, Chua details incidents like the time she called her daughter “garbage,” the time she threatened to burn all of her daughter’s stuffed animals and the time she threw a hand-drawn birthday card back at her daughter explaining, “I deserve better than this. So I reject this.” Cherished family memories, each of them.

The card incident is amazing. I’ve received countless crudely drawn birthday cards in my life, some even from children. I had no idea you could reject them. I’ve been accepting them this whole time, and saying thank you. I’m so weak. I blame you, mom.

That’s it. From now on, when somebody, regardless of age, fails to meet my expectations, I’m definitely going to turn into a tiger. Not literally, like attorney Doug Mann of Dyer, Garofalo, Mann and Schultz does when you’ve been in an accident that’s no fault of your own, but psychologically. After all, why should kids have all the crippling mental breakdowns fun?

But those with children are probably sitting at home right now wondering if being a tiger parent is right for them. Well, just take this handy 12-question survey to find out.

SO YOU’VE DECIDED TO EAT YOUR YOUNG …
Please circle all that apply:

1. I am a tiger and/or I have stripes. (If yes, congratulations, your survey is complete.)

2. The sound of children’s laughter fills me with rage.

3. If a child has time to sleep, they have time to practice violin.

4. If a child has time to practice violin, they have time to solve complex mathematical equations.

5. If children have time to cry, they have time to do both simultaneously while I spit watermelon seeds at their heads.

6. Sleepovers are not allowed, even if a child’s cage is large enough for two.

7. I will choose all of my child’s extracurricular activities. Whether they actually enjoy cobbling is of no concern to me.

8. Fire says more than words ever could.

9. Birthday parties are nothing more than a vehicle for superfluous cake and/or cheerful singing.

10. Cake and cheerful singing fill me with rage.

11. If a child wants to play house, they can climb on the roof and clean out the gutters.

12. When times are hard, I draw strength from the vial of my children’s tears I wear around my neck.


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Lists That Actually Matter: Top 10 Ugliest Features of Impossibly Attractive People

Oh, hey. Just having my bare chested afternoon tea.

It's day three of Ugly Week here at Lists That Actually Matter and my fellow heartthrobs and I couldn't be happier with the results. But as we approach the mid-point of Ugly Week (a most solemn and reflective time) we also want to be very clear that ugliness is not confined to just outward appearances. Beauty is only skin deep, you know? And underneath is a bunch of blood and poop and connective tissue that would make you gag if you had to look at it regularly, Slim Goodbody notwithstanding. But there are many other ways in which otherwise attractive people can ugly themselves up.

See the list HERE.


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A Message to My Nonexistent, Unborn Future Children About Googling Their Father

Hi kid(s), it's daddy. Well, you're here so I assume we've avoided that whole universally infertile Children of Men society, which is good.

I'll also assume that since you're here you've Googled my name. Hey, before we get to that, is your homework done? Then what the hell are you doing messing around online?! I assume we've already had this discussion and hence, I do not want to have it again. Do you want me to take away your cell phone(s), provided such things still exist when you're reading this and doctors haven't just started implanting communication chips into children's brains at birth? Don't roll your eyes at me young lady/ladies/man/men. Don't think you won't be spanked, if I'm still alive and you're not yet at an age where it would be peculiar to do so. Go to your room.

No, wait. I'm sorry. Come back here, kiddo(s). Have a seat. I'm glad you're here. There's something I've been wanting to talk to you about and, as with most aspects of parenting, it's much easier to let a machine do the legwork rather than address it with you directly.

OK, so you've Googled me. Listen, I want to be straight with you about this so you understand what daddy was doing when he wrote the things you may have come across in your searches. So here goes.

You've probably noticed some vulgarity and other words used that I've forbidden you from using yourself. You've also probably found reference to topics that I've deemed unsuitable for discussion at the dinner table or elsewhere. Now before you label me a hypocrite, I think it's important that I be totally honest and forthcoming with you. A frank and open discussion is what this all about. I think you can handle it.

I want you to know that each of those words was carefully chosen for a very specific reason. And that reason is that I worked on behalf of the U.S. government, sending confidential coded messages to intelligence forces around the world who were out there defending our freedom against those who wished to destroy it. (Get home safe, guys!) Mom was involved, too. That scar on her cheek she always said was from a dog bite? Uh-uh. Knife fight, Chechen rebels, Moscow subway tunnel. She got out. The rebels ... *puts on sunglasses* ... missed their stop.

As far as my role, it was simple, really. In a typical post, every third letter of every seventh word corresponded with that letter's position in the alphabet. Those numbers communicated a set of global coordinates for a rendezvous point where an agent would find his or her horse for that mission. Attached to the saddle would be directions to a safe. The horse would then be blindfolded (can't take any chances) and the two would ride under cover of darkness to their destination. Upon arrival, the agent would open the safe by using another code, this one made up of the last letter of the last word of every sentence in the post with an odd number of words.

Once inside the safe, agents would find the basics for each mission: a dossier containing a detailed profile of his or her target(s) as well as the standard issue laser watch, ninja throwing star belt buckle, cyanide pill cuff links, fake mustaches and Tide-to-Go stain removal pen.

At that point, the horse was shot (again, can't take any chances) and my knowledge of the mission objectives ended.

Ah, it feels good to finally be honest with you. You see, don't you feel silly for thinking ill of your old man now? This was all for the good of the country, and to protect your future. Of course, in an ironic twist, now that you know all of this, you'll have to be killed.

Let this be a lesson to you. Never question your father under any circumstances. But I'm still glad we had this talk, kiddo(s). Hey, who wants ice cream for their last meal?


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Highlights and Lowlights from New York Fashion Week: An Insider's Guide to Fabulous

Another New York Fashion Week has come and gone, and what a week it was! Easily the best this reporter has ever seen. And as usual, it ran the gamut, from the practicality of Zander Nouveau's ready-to-wear furniture to the surreal, post-apocalyptic sundresses from Thom Guzzardo. 

By the time we arrived at the closing ceremony, where garments deemed unsuitable or unnecessary are burned in front of a group of needy families, there were enough moments, memories and styles to last a lifetime. Or at least a trend cycle!

We certainly saw a little bit of everything this year. A collection made entirely of baby hair? Check. The return of Velcro shoes? Check. Avian models? Yep, had those too (pulled off, as regular readers likely guessed, by the visionaries at Boysenberry). In are powdered wigs and capri shirts. Out are neck braces and two-tone leather hats.

So who were the big winners and losers? As you might guess with a subject this open to interpretation, opinions are varied. It's like we in the business always say, "One man's sock, is another man's thumbless mitten." But as usual, there were plenty of obvious hits and misses. Here are some who distinguished themselves, for better or worse.

Winners
Ö
The German prodigy had his detractors coming in to this week. "Too raw," they said. "Too daffy." He silenced them. A show featuring models slathered in honey straddling hibernating bears will do that. The honey could have made properly lighting the intricately embroidered dickies a real headache, but it was pulled off with aplomb. Sorry naysayers, Ö is a rising star. Get yourself a telescope.


Sandra Fernandez Sanchez Rodriguez
Fernandez Sanchez Rodriguez thrilled us (what else is new?) with her gritty Adobe Tree House collection. Partially inspired by her working class youth spent rock farming in southern Arizona, it's shabby chic meets shabby. The eco-friendly garments are constructed of 90% recycled dirt clumps and cannot be sweat in or worn in precipitation.


Serfs
Not the Norwegian thread house located in the fishing village of Fjellværsøya, but the actual low level assistants who normally spend much of Fashion Week alternating corners in which to quietly weep. But I cannot recall a year when I saw fewer reduced to tears. By this reporter's count, only two headsets were broken backstage, and only one was purposely bashed over someone's skull. So for the first time in my 18 years of attending this event, I can say: good for you, sad, poorly compensated disposables doing all of the actual work.

Horatio Fellatio
His codpieces have been talked about in underground circles for decades, but they've only recently gained mainstream recognition. It's much deserved and long overdue. The intricate feathering and hand stitching on his Dream Catcher line is unlike anything else available in the world of crotch pouches. So breathtaking was the presentation that Target made an immediate bid to carry the collection in their stores. Will it be palatable to the masses? Who cares. It's the definition of fierce.


Losers
Thor Sanskrit
Sanskrit's backstory is well documented. Born eight months premature with only half an eye, he was mistakenly placed in a trash bin outside the hospital where he still lives to this day. He began studying at the knee of legendary designer Jeffery St. George at age 12, so he has the pedigree. But half an eye or not, there's no excuse for the translucent inseam on his otherwise marvelous stirrup bodysuits.


Fever Dream
Ever the promotional innovators, Brooklyn duo Fever Dream began a viral marketing blitz surrounding their pet project, Unperfect, months in advance of their show. The buzz coming in was considerable. Some said it was a collection of leather neckties for women. Others said scarves that were acually venomous snakes. But the collection was revealed to be nothing more than a reinterpretation of their already popular macramé turtlenecks. Seen it.


Bertrams & Van Nord
Pierce Bertrams and Giles Van Nord have outfitted everyone from Ke$ha to the Archduke of Liechtenstein. They're firmly established in the consciousness of both the culturally elite and the general public. They're untouchable. Teflon. And that's the problem, they know it. Which explains why, when the curtain was pulled back to unveil their Troubadour "collection," there was but a rack of empty hangers there to greet a stunned audience. Brilliant. But then, the hangers never made their way down the catwalk. Were they plastic? Metal? Could they have been wood? Or maybe they had those clips on them that almost never work? I wish I could tell you. We never got a good look. Pure hubris.


Yoshi Han Yoshi
This was supposed to be the cult fashion icon's arrival on the grandest stage, but all in attendance agreed this one missed the mark. Going with a pilgrim theme was risky. Also making them clowns was even riskier. Sorry, Yoshi. We could have overlooked the buckle shoes if they weren't also comically oversized.


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Lists That Actually Matter: Five Things Worse Than Tiger Woods Spitting on a Putting Green

Cover your eyes and those of the nearest impressionable child. From a weekend golf tournament in Spain comes disturbing news that further portends the demise of polite society. Tiger Woods spit on a putting green. Not the green! That's the shortest of all the grasses! You scoundrel! How could you, Eldrick? Just when we thought you'd changed, you go and start spraying your bodily fluids around again with no regard for who it might hurt. Human excretions have no place on the golf course, sir. Unless, of course, the place is behind a tree on the back nine and the fluid is urine. Then it's a case by case situation.

The point is, in the order of sacred places that must be shown proper reverence, it goes: 1) golf courses, 2) war memorials, 3) Mall of America, 4) Native American burial grounds. In fact, I could only think of five things you could have done on that putting green that would have been more offensive than spitting...

See the list HERE.


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Better To Be Safe Than Spidey

The following was originally published in the January 21 edition of the Dayton Daily News and will likely win a Pulitzer.

If my calculations are correct, more people have died during rehearsal for the new Broadway musical “Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark” than in both World Wars combined.

If that doesn’t scare you, maybe this will. As the injuries pile up on the set of the much talked about, much delayed show, we can’t even rely on Spider-Man for help. Because guess what? He’s badly injured, too. Took a fall a few weeks back and now he can’t even feel his spider-sense tingling.

That means your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man is probably a backup. On duty for the first time, and from what I hear, not even licensed to carry webs.

But while everyone is disturbed by what’s happening in that theater on the Great White Way, the focus here shouldn’t be on the unfortunate soundtrack created by Bono and The Edge.

Instead, we should be trying to find ways to protect Spider-Man so that he, in turn, can protect us. There are some basic rules and safety measures that can be implemented in and around the theater to make a big difference. They could even serve to improve and enhance the show. Maybe make it feel more real.

For one, Spider-Man should now complete all scenes contained inside a bouncy castle. As an added precaution in the event the castle loses air, audience members seated in the first three rows are now required to be morbidly obese.

Spider-Man must be wearing helmets and kneepads at all times. It doesn’t matter if Batman’s family lets him go out without them whenever he wants. If Batman went out without his mask would you do it too?

Further, Spider-Man won’t be allowed to leave the house without a sweater. It can get downright chilly in those old theaters and that could lead to a case of the sniffles. Relax, everyone will still see the suit. And by the end of the show the audience won’t even be able to picture the costume without the cardigan anymore.

Also regarding the costume, blinking reflectors will be added to each Spider-Man’s suit so as to be easily seen by cast, crew, motorists driving at dusk and other Spider-Men who may be left dangling from the rafters from previous failed performances.

Speaking of which, instead of dangerous aerial maneuvers performed while swinging from webs high above the stage, Spider-Man will now briskly walk back and forth on stage, creating the illusion of flight. It’s called acting.

These strenuous musical numbers will each be followed by brief cool-down sessions, where Spider-Man and fellow characters stop to have some orange juice and maybe a cookie. This doesn’t need to happen any more than between 18 and 26 times at varying random spots throughout the performance nightly, so as to not disrupt the show’s flow.

And of course, all Spider-Men will be required to supply an emergency contact number. Necessary information will include a first and last name, specified relationship to Spider-Man, a daytime phone number and any nut allergies.

With great power comes great responsibility, and with great stunts comes producers’ great responsibility to be able to contact a next of kin.

So mostly minor tweaks in all, but important ones. And with them, “Spider-Man” the musical should be ready to officially and safely launch without further delay.

Helmets and cardigans, everyone! The show's about to start.


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Valentine's Day for Poor People

Ah, Valentine's Day. A day when your significant other's daily failings can manifest themselves as one daylong colossal disappointment. My wife and I made the decision this year not to buy Valentine's Day gifts for each other, not because of some misguided stand against the over-commercialization of the holiday, but because we are poor.

And what we've learned from this experience is that despite the absence of disposable income, even poors are capable of love. And I mean love of people, not just modestly priced brown liquor. I know, it shocked me too. So knowing that, doesn't it make sense that low-income members of society also have a way to properly express their affection for each other? The answer is probably. So I brainstormed a few fiscally responsible ways to celebrate. You can even use these if you're wealthy. Although I'm not sure why you wouldn't just instead buy an island and go there.

Steal a puppy.
Dogs make memorable gifts, but purchasing one from a breeder or pet store can be expensive. It makes considerably more financial sense to drive around your neighborhood looking for unattended dogs in backyards. Get out early before your local dog fighters to ensure the best selection. Once you've found your dog, tying a bandanna around its neck can serve the dual purpose of being adorable and throwing your neighbor off the scent when you're out on future walks, as their similar looking dog clearly did not wear one.

Perform intercourse in the third position.
Normally reserved for the third and sixth nights of honeymoons or other long vacations, there is a little known third mating position that, when utilized, sends the signal that this is a special occasion. I don't want to get too graphic, but in its own way, it often says more than flowers, chocolates and stolen pets ever could. Speaking of which, during the act be sure to put your new dog in the other room or blindfold them with their bandanna because they have a tendency to stare. Unless you're into that kind of thing, in which case do nothing. Except maybe see a therapist.

Serenade your lover.
Is there anything more romantic than belting out a love song to that special someone? And the best part is, all you need to make it work is a velvety smooth voice, a musical instrument, the ability to play that instrument at a level where you can also sing simultaneously, the ability to remember the words while you do that, a large balcony off of your bedroom and an evening with plentiful moonlight. It's important to find a song that also conveys the right sentiments, so be choosy. Don't just go with the first song that pops into your head. Unless the first song that pops into you head is this, in which case, go with it.

Dress like a slut.
The greatest gift of all. Outside of Halloween and Flag Day, no holiday is more conducive to promiscuous dress than Valentine's Day. And this goes for both men and women. Guys, if you're making dinner for your special lady at home, don't be afraid to serve beefcake for dessert.


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Royal Fever: Catch It!

If you're anything like me, the royal wedding has your body totally covered in open sores right now. Yes, I think it's safe to say excitement over the upcoming nuptials of Prince William and Kate Middleton has us all urinating blood. Sounds like we've come down with a touch of Royal Fever, am I right? If there's another explanation, I can't think of it. Can you, Fezziwig?

OK, Fezzi, I know you're hungry. You've only been biting me all day. Just a minute while I tell the nice people about my recent column for the Dayton Daily News. In it I discuss William and Kate's ill-advised decision to go servant-less after they've wed. The fools! What if they both come down with Royal Fever? Or are they immune? Or maybe just he is and she could come down with it at any time because her veins are filled with nothing more than commoner blood, which is actually 60% dirt? Either way, my Royal Fever seems to be getting more intense and I'm really beginning to hallucinate. So while this minotaur gives me a piggyback ride to the doctor, why don't you swing by and check out the column.
Update: The links above are not working, but you can find the column here, on allbusiness.com for some reason. Must be because I'm all business. Or because I'm always taking care of it. One of the two.


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Goals

Having recently turned 30, I think it's important to take a step back and really think about my life goals. I think this because I've heard that I should. It's why one of my goals going forward is to be less impressionable than a common toddler.

Another goal is to start writing more of my own stuff again, which explains what you see here. Unless you got here through an unrelated Google search, in which case the explanation probably lies somewhere in my repeated use and misspelling of the word "abreast."

Whatever the case, welcome friend! Join me on my possible journey toward regular non-family readership, won't you?

I'm not sure what this blog will be (besides hilarious!), but to be sure we're headed in the right direction, I thought it would be a good idea to keep you a breast of some more of my aforementioned goals, both for myself and the blog. Seems like the adult thing to do. So let's see, there's:

• Start blog.

OK, so far, so good. What else do we have?

• Eat more pistachios.

Done.

• Eat more tacos.

Doner. This is easy! Anything else?

• Write everyday.

Wait a minute, that sounds like a lot of work. Can't I just agree to write when I've run out of pistachios and/or tacos?

• No, write everyday.

Excluding Sundays and holidays?

• No, write everyday.

That's going to be tough. I'm a busy young professional who leads an active lifestyle, that's why my fridge is full of Michelob Ultra. Can we meet in the middle?

• OK, write every other day. At least.
  

Fine, I will.

• Good.

Great.

• You do that.

I will.

• Just do it.

I said I would. God, get off my back.

• Be all that you can be.

Vague and subjective, just the way I like my goals. In fact, if anybody asks, let's just go ahead and say that I've already done this one.

• Reach out and touch someone.

And the lucky unsuspecting stranger on the bus is ...

• Dance as though no one is watching

All right, these are getting a little harder, but goals are goals. However, I'll be damned if I'm going to love as though I've never been hurt.

On second thought, let's forget the goals. This is getting too personal, too fast. I think the best thing to do is just get on with it. So without further ado, aside from the ado between now and the next post, an ongoing collection of the finest written work in the history of human language. You're welcome.


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